


herr mannelig

by Plexus (toitsu)



Series: this house in not haunted [3]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, past strickler/jim, poor jim continues to suffer, some not so graphic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toitsu/pseuds/Plexus
Summary: your only saving grace, perhaps, is that you offer the ring





	herr mannelig

**Author's Note:**

> so originally this wasn't supposed to be continuation of other two, but it went through several plot twists as it evolved. still WIP. other part will be posted eventually cause i'm swamped with writing thesis and other finishing college work. 
> 
> title because i kept listening garmarna's 'herr mannelig' on repeat while writing most of this.

i.

your only saving grace, perhaps, is that you offer the ring – in a moment of blind _panic_ and not calculation, yes, but – in any case it makes him hesitate, your hand that only _slightly_ shakes, palm open and his ring glowing there.

(you did _almost_ put it on, almost tried to gain control, but – you wouldn't know how to command him and he wouldn't be a good obedient pet, oh no, look how he turned on strickler – )

he steps closer. angor rot is _tall –_ nothing _new_ about that, almost everyone is, taller than you, that is – but he is _unnerving_ in ways even bular was not, and he was as unnerving as they got, bloodthirsty and murderous.

the silence stretches and you wonder if you should say anything, remind him of the _deal_ – he crushes your palm with his hand, almost grinds your _bones_ to dust between his fingers, ring digging into the skin, drags you up so you are face to face – there is nothing _friendly_ in his expression, his glowing eyes and mouth-full-of-teeth.

i.

_i don't want to die in the sewer._

your phone buzzes in your pocket, has been doing that on and off, increasingly more as time passes. you can't bring yourself to move despite how much you _want_ – you're _probably_ not dying actually (probably) but it sure feels like that, your hand swollen-angry-red (definitely broken), head empty except when you open your eyes – then it hurts, then you want to throw up, _forget_ about _getting up_ –  and your chest is – there is something weird about it, pain and pressure and slowly but surely you feel like you can't handle the air, like you're taking in too much and not breathing out enough - you're not sure how long you lie there like that, wishing not to die _,_ and isn't that depressingly common nowadays, you curled up all hurt and alone in the dark -

( _you've done your part, trollhunter. it's time i honor mine.)_

oh how he smiled when he said that, mocking and _mean_ , laughed when your armor appeared. took your sword while your face burned with his _mark,_ laughed when your bones _snapped,_ and it's embarrassing, _humiliating,_ how he knocked you around ( _i thought i was getting_ better _at this!)_ – left you in a sad heap, your amulet and armor and weapons useless –

_(don't hurt my mother! please!)_

left without reassurance or even a threat.

and even _that_ , even the thought of what he could do isn't enough to make you move. that will still take a while. (you'd like to be ignorant just a little bit more)

eventually you reach your phone, croak _in the sewers, need help getting up_ to whoever is at the other end of the line.

toby's distressed voice turns into a background noise as the phone slips from your hand.

i.

_what_ happened _, jim?_ she is trying not to yell, half-fury-all-worry coloring her voice. _jim. please tell me._ and you'd love to, you really would, say _huge hulking brute of a troll is trying to kill me, and maybe you, i'm not sure –_ but you can't find words, and don't want to see on her face that she doesn't believe you.

(all that matters is that _she_ is _alive_. for now)

_i don't know mom. i didn't see whoever attacked me, they hit my head_. she fusses over you, senses that you lie, but she is gentle at the remainder of your injuries – your hand, and your broken ribs, and concussed head and something called _pneumothorax_ – she read you the list when you woke and when you cried to see her there, _alive,_ and asked at last what happened, like you had _no idea_ how you came to be in a hospital bed.

i.

you are not sure why you wake up in the middle of the night, body still warm and soft with sleep and morphine ( _it's_ not _morphine, jim, you don't need such strong drugs – aw, all this and i don't even get the good stuff – don't joke like that)_ , surrounded by beeping machines. it's not the noise that wakes you, you're sure of that. it's not a nurse checking up on you. it's not toby either, slumped in the chair. by all accounts you two are alone and undisturbed in the night. and yet. something is not right -

it's _night._

you glance to the window, but no, there is nothing there, no shadows, no glowing eyes staring back -

your heart rate still goes up, yanks the _beep_ out of the machine –

if he comes now – if he does anything – your armor jostles the needles and tubes coming out of your body, pinpricks of pain overriding effects of drugs  –

_jimbo? what –_

running on the corridor, and you barely have time to will the amulet to deactivate, nick of time before your mom barges in, eyes huge and mouth open in fear. _beep beep beep_ protests the machine.

i.

soon there are more people in the room, someone sticks syringe in your arm – it doesn't kick immediately, but soon enough you relax (unwillingly) and nurses go about readjusting the tubes and assessing damage you did to yourself. your mom holds your uninjured hand, whispers soothingly, _it's okay jim it was only a nightmare,_ and _add diazepam through the night_ to the nurse fetching new saline bag – if only it was just that, and you can't be _sure,_ you saw no proof – but he _was_ watching you, lurking somewhere in the dark outside.

your mother still stays with you, when nurses are gone and toby sneaks back, babbling _jim are you alright._ she stays until you go down under effects of sedatives, and perhaps even longer. she hasn't fussed about you like this in a while, and despite everything, it's nice for a change –

morning brings headache and another unpleasant surprise, _beep beep beep_ but not fast enough to summon your mom before he opens his mouth.

the paleness of his face contrasts the dark shadows around his eyes and strickler's voice is _small,_ afraid when he asks, _jim. what have you done._

and you want to scream, _how dare you ask_ me _anything after that –_

(his hands on you, his eyes and teeth glinting in the dark)

i.

you have no _sympathy_ for him – _it's your own fault in the first place! (you hurt me!) –_ no concern except _did the spell break_ – and yet, some small part of you twinges when he nods, miserable, admits. _yes._

(larger part of you is reeling in _surprise._ )

(so angor really _did –_ )

your mother is delighted to see him, of course, _thank you for stopping by; do you have any idea who could've done this, by any chance?_

_don't talk to him,_ you want to yell, _don't let him close, he is dangerous, it's because of him i'm like this –_ but you don't say anything, as usual, just glower and seethe with rage.

i.

after, there is claire, worried and forcing back the _how could you jim why did you give him the ring -_ it's not that she doesn't understand _,_ but she is also aware what it could mean, angor cut loose – _oh jim please be careful_ – _am i not always_ – she doesn't laugh at your feeble joke.

then comes toby again, attempts to lighten up the atmosphere – you marginally relax and soon the three of you talk of inane stuff.

they don't stay the night; claire has to babysit and you don't want toby to break his neck sleeping in uncomfortable hospital chairs again – _go home and tell blinky and aaarrrgghh i'll be fine –_

(when the nurse checks up on you, you ask her if she can fetch your mom)

i.

you recover fairly fast, all things considered – not your broken bones, of course, but you don't hemorrhage all over insides of your skull and your lungs are no longer in danger of collapse. _i want to keep you here just one more night,_ mom says, _just to be sure_ as she pulls out drainage tube out of your chest, her assistant ready to close the suture and apply gauze. _okay,_ you say, as if you can even protest and walk away – besides you've been getting more sleep than ever since you found the amulet, and apart from first night you haven't woken in panic – and you see more of her, see that she is well and alive, and that is the nicest part. for a moment, you can almost forget your double life and hurt and lies.

i.

it hits you when you are finally free of drugs and machines, just how _anxious_ and _worried_ you are – you haven't heard nor seen any of him for _days_ – maybe no one wanted to tell you anything but – you remember the first time, shadows growing over field and golem he left behind – it's wishful thinking, _why didn't strickler choose someone like bular, he was at least straightforward –_ you respond best to direct threat, none of this waiting and fretting –

you feel a little better when you are home and draal is happy to see you alive, drags you down to troll market so everyone can see you are fine (so they do _care,_ even vendel – they just express it in grunts and eye-rolls and _what kind of trollhunter dies of broken bones –_ but they don't call on you to help them in their inane tasks, at least. turns out they _are_ capable of handling gnome infestations themselves. figures)

but later, when you look out of your window and see a figure on toby's roof – even at the distance it's hard to miss the strange glowing eyes – some of the fear is replaced by relief. you don't call draal for backup, and while cast makes it awkward to climb out of window, you manage to be really quiet.

i.

you're not sure how to act (last time you two were in the same space was a _blast_ ), but your amulet does – it hurts when the cast is replaced by plates, healing bones and flesh protesting the mistreatment, fingers refusing to close around hilt of the sword – but you feel slightly better that you're not going unarmed – for all the good it ever did when faced with him –

it's once again awkward to climb, because he doesn't come down (why are you even _trying_ to get so close – you can shout. attention be damned, you _should_ shout – ) – he hasn't moved much at all, it seems, except to leer at you, knife in his hand chipping away at the stone. another golem. you hope he won't throw one at you, you hope he won't attack – you are seriously outclassed, you are aware, but maybe now he's got his ring back he'll step down –

_you are very foolish to come alone._

ah, yes. even before strickler entered the picture, angor rot was hunting trollhunters.

i.

but he doesn't _hurt_ you, not yet, doesn't lay a hand on you to inflict pain but later you'd have prefered that to – when he says _you proved to be very useful_ you are confused, when he says _you'll get me the keys to troll market_ you are enraged – he doesn't even try to take your sword away when you jump at him, he just says – _i transferred the spell to myself._

it takes you a moment to process. then his hand closes around your mouth, stays there while you try to pry away, your helpless scream muted.

you scream for a while.

i.

it's _unfair,_ how everyone is using your mother against you – she doesn't _deserve,_ she isn't even involved, she doesn't _know_ – why can't it be _anyone else,_ someone with an idea what they got themselves into – absurdly, you think of kanjigar, imagine his _i told you so_ –

_yes, yes, life isn't fair,_ angor rot tells you softly, face unfriendly and cruel, _but when you flaunt your weakness to the world you have no one else to blame when you get taken advantage of._

(why, is he talking from _personal experience_ – hard to imagine, that, but he does have his precious ring, whatever is the story behind – or just riling you up, as if you are _not_ _supposed_ to care for your family and friends - )

you tire of struggling after a while, finding no escape from his iron grip. you hang there limp, your hand flaring in pain and chest tight and burning with _please not my mother._ he lets you speak. that's what you repeat, desperate whisper, _please please please, i'll do anything –_

once, lifetime ago, you were willing to bend the knee in front of steve to avoid a fight (ah, how that turned out).

(and then, for your mother, you kept quiet and still and didn't fight back – )

_(please not again, not like that –)_

_the key, and i will consider it_ , but he lies, you can hear in his voice that he lies, that he takes pleasure in reducing you to this – _and my staff, men are not_ worthy _of wielding it._

a small part of you is tired of this. _very_ tired of this, of being outgunned at every turn, and that's why you quip, _claire is not a man._ he throws you to the ground, honest-to-god flings you over the edge of the roof – (oh you won't have to worry about him for long if this keeps up because _your mom will kill you_ for getting hurt over and over again) – stalks down to stand over you – _i will kill all your friends. and i will make you watch it._

i.

you don't know what to do so you call your gang, because three heads are better than one, and six would be great but the other three wouldn't understand. or rather, they would, and it would just make them sad that they can't really help with your distress – even for you they wouldn't risk the safety of the market and all that dwell within –

_jim, you can't give him the key –_ thank _you, claire – don't be an_ ass _–_

you _know_ you can't, but it's your _mother_ –

thankfully your cast is back in its place, your hand _only_ hurting more than it did, no further damage – you think – and the three of you go in circles, _what should we do, we have to tell them, what can we do –_

you need to tell the rest of them, of course, that goes without saying, and you will, eventually – blinky in particular might know more about angor rot  –  

_have you ever heard of inferna copula –_

_indeed i have –_

and then you have an inkling of an idea, just a small one – but first you need blinky's extensive knowledge of history, or at least his library.

i.

_YOU WANT TO TURN HIM INTO GNOME CHOMPSKI?!_

i.

that's grossly oversimplifying it, and it's ridiculous to compare _him_ to an endearing vermin – but it's not _wrong_ , in essence, to make an ally out of a threat – if there was a way, you want to consider – he's a slippery snake, outmaneuvered you at every turn and you don't want to be stuck in the loop of _my friends or my mother_ forever (as if you'll get more than few days at best before he forces your hand), but if he could be reasoned with –

_he's been after trollhunters for some eight hundred years, master jim –_

that may be, but _why_ is he, out of some whim? loyalty to gunmar? but then, angor never mentioned him, never spouted bullshit about gunmar's return, wouldn't have bular prefered to work with him and not strickler if that was the case, someone competent instead of _impure_ –

( _you know nothing of waiting. i waited centuries to reclaim what is mine,_ he said, implying something was taken from him – his ring – his _soul,_ if blinky is to be believed – which you gave back, without so much as a _thank you_ from him – but who makes a thing like that, item that gives others control of you – )

_we share a common enemy_ – but strickler is no threat anymore, doesn't have the ring, doesn't have the charm, last time you've seen him he looked like he ran for his life all night  ( _i hope you die)_ – maybe he is dead by now – but strickler wasn't working for gunmar anymore, was he – did angor, ever – but if not gunmar, who _else_ was there?

none of your friends know. or, rather – blinky has ideas. blinky has _many_ ideas. and book in each of his hands, and manic glint in every eye, and rest of you sigh and disperse among piles, picking tomes at random and looking for anything that could be of help (and honestly, it's preferable to alternative, going out and _asking angor rot – so hey, how stupid were you when you put your soul in the ring_ – or visiting all the various creatures blinky can think of and asking _them – hello, does this brute belong to you.)_

(still – you have a feeling you might end up doing just that – but for now – library is safe, lights soft and inviting, even if books aren't – and you're with your friends –)

it warms you up, despite everything, that they are not dismissing your idea outright, that everyone is pitching in to help – even if claire keeps tight hold on the staff, _dare you to give it back to him_ face when your eyes meet – maybe it won't result in disaster, maybe something will turn alright in the end. you snort. but you keep turning the pages, and all of them are doing the same.

i.

but honestly – _honestly_ – the list of possible culprits is _huge_ – and _wow,_ there are so many kid-eating witches that you thought were just fairytales, and more that you never even heard of – many magical creatures, and any of them could have, might have, might have had reasons, might have not – and none of you know enough to guess who _would_ have –

it's almost dawn by the time you crawl back to your bed, exhausted, names swimming between your eyelids and the eyes, terrible creatures and tales written in those blocky letters, and your mother isn't home, and you miss her terribly, want to tell her all – tell her – _mom i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i fucked up everything_ – it's dawn, single ray of light creeping into your room, slow and shy – hiss, unmistakable _stench_ of – you stumble out of bed, eyes wide open and burning with need-to-sleep – and there, retreating from daylight, angor rot in the corner of your room.

(in the room where you _sleep – )_  

 


End file.
